Page 88 of Ablaze

With a groan and more cursing under my breath, I succumb to their idiotic idea. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

Ten minutes later, I’m slamming my beer bottle down on the bar table, ready to punch something while they’re bent over laughing.

I’m just shoving myself through the exit at the pool hall when Darian bellows at me, “Rani has great recommendations for nearby salons if you need ‘em.”

I think back to the shit Garrett and I pulled on him as kids, knowing this has to be some form of karma. “Jackass.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

DEAN

Four Days Ago

I look up at the sky camouflaged by dark clouds, like ghouls floating over a darkened lake. The weather has been unpredictable this year, but the chill and electricity in the air travels down my spine, raising the hair at the back of my neck.

It’s only a little past eight in the morning, but it already feels like a weird day.

I don’t know why, but something feels off. Like the strange pit at the bottom of my stomach. Like the bizarre wrench inside my chest. Like the unwanted grate against the walls of my throat.

I wonder what it’s about.

Is this some sort of weird twin-telepathy thing? Garrett and I can definitely read each other, but we’ve never had that unexplainable connection that twins talk about. But then again, we’re not identical either, so maybe that’s why.

My mind wanders, thinking about what this feeling is and whether I should just call him to see if he’s okay. Walking into the station, I’m just pulling up my phone to message him when a familiar voice–one I haven’t heard in a few months–floats into my ears.

My molars grind as I try to saunter past Rohan without being seen while he’s on a video call with Mala. As if they can’t help themselves, my eyes float to his screen and I catch a glimpse of her.

Fuck.

The ache in my chest grows as I take in the way she laughs, her full lips tuning upward like two points on a crescent moon, her nose crinkling on the sides in the way it always does. She looks . . . happy.

Unlike me.

The sounds of her laughter cease abruptly, and I realize her eyes have stalled on me. I also realize I’ve stopped moving and am staring. So much for trying to move past them without being seen.

A pronounced frown replaces the smile that was previously there and her brows bunch together. Rohan turns over his shoulder to find me, and I quickly hasten my pace, directing myself toward our bunk. I’m not changing into my turnout gear or anything . . . I just need a quiet minute to quell the upsurge for everything flitting inside my brain like debris inside a tornado. Thankfully, it’s empty.

My breaths are shallow as her face spins inside my head. Her beautiful, perfect, sweet face.

“Fuck!” I pound my fist against one of the bunk lockers before taking a seat on a mattress. I’ve spent quite a few nights inside this room. I lower my head into my open palms and focus on my breathing instead of the twinge inside my chest.

It’s been four months since we spoke. Four months since I’ve heard her voice.

The last time we spoke it felt like we were both trying to pull out each other’s teeth and not having much success–neither of us used the damn tools at our disposal to just say what was on our mind. We kept walking on eggshells and pretending they weren’t slicing our feet.

She asked me about my day and what I’d been up to lately. I mouthed off something about being busy at work and getting ready for an annual festival the crew was involved in. She told me she liked her job, but I didn’t believe her. Not that I voiced it, but based on the way she tried extra hard to sound chipper about it, I knew she hated it.

And yet, I still didn’t ask her to quit, never asked her to come back to me.

I still didn’t tell her I fucking missed her so much, I couldn’t wake up or fall asleep without thinking about her. That I still hadn’t stepped foot inside her café because the thought of her not being there, crouched with her arms around a customer’s dog, filled my chest with fire. That even the sight of sprinkles on ice cream or doughnuts made me sick. That any sweatshirt with something funny written on it reminded me of her.

Everything reminded me of her and yet, I still didn’t tell her.

I wasn’t trying to be a martyr or doing her some big favor; I just didn’t want to be the reason she left something she wanted to do. And even if I didn’t believe she loved her job, her pretending she did kept me from asking her to come back.

Maybe she wouldn’t want to come back because she’d found someone else. Her boss, who bought her those flowers, perhaps? Maybe it was the same guy whose car she got into all those months ago.

I sat in my car and stared at her empty apartment for an hour. I’d originally driven there to tell her how I felt, convinced she’d see things the same way–that we had something. That we had everything. But the longer I sat there, the more I realized what a foolish plan that was. Because if she was really happy, if she’d indeed moved on to someone else so quickly after the night we shared, then maybe I didn’t need to add more complication to her life.

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